


A Minor Transgression

by Lue4028



Series: Rites of Passage [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-21 15:55:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3698186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lue4028/pseuds/Lue4028
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just when Sherlock feels he's found a healthy balance between work and family life with John, something John's daughter does causes Sherlock's brain to short circuit. [Partentlock]</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Minor Transgression

John and Sherlock are coasting together in a cab, sitting across from each other as the streets of London blend in the window. “You alright?” John asks, giving his raven-haired companion a once-over. He looks a touch disheveled, shirt rustled, hair wind-swept, but very satisfied.

“Never better.”

“Looks like you got into a bit of a..” John vaguely indicates his partner’s state of disarray, “skirmish.”

“Jealous?”

John scoffs, almost-comically affronted. “Why should I be jealous you look like you fell into a wind turbine?” he retorts.

“Because your domestic life must be oh-so-invigorating,” Sherlock drawls satirically and then smirks at the window, resting his head on a hand.

“Please, I’m just concerned,” John replies testily and looks away. The multi-level complexes along the boulevard stream by with rain traveling down the curve of the window shield. Time ticks slowly. John’s hand twitches irresistibly.

“Alright,” John relents with a sigh, turning his attention back to his flatmate with great reluctance, “What did happen, then, that was so bloody enthralling?”

Sherlock’s eyes slide over to his smoothly. “It was on top of a train. A moving train,” he smirks, “It was practically James Bond.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Is it?” Sherlock returns in a tone of piqued intrigue, very full of himself. Then his eyes shift to the edge of his field of vision and he looks surprised, some fine, irregular detail catching his interest.

“Is that.. engine exhaust in my hair?” he muses in a startled tone, stoking charcoal out of his fringe, then his eyes blink down at his legs, which are crossed over each other comfortably, apparently taken aback. “And aluminum scuff marks?” he ponders, tilting his wingtips side to side.

“Alright, alright,” John concedes with a hand wave, backing off.

“Oh, look at that,” he exclaims in feigned bewilderment, raising his hand so they can observe the condition of his forearm, “The electrical line nearly caught my coat sleeve. Near miss that one.”

John narrows his gaze at the wool material which boasts a partial tear and remnants of deteriorated insulator rubber. Yes, John is green with envy.

“You’re liable to get yourself killed without me,” John mutters under his breath, glowering his thinly-disguised envy out the window.

“It would be worth it though.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“But you don't disagree,” Sherlock points out.

John turns to him with a smile across his lips, eyes deep sapphire blue. “I’m just relieved it hasn’t gotten to that point yet,” he replies, then he leans forward, stroking his fingers through Sherlock’s fringe. His eyes widen in amazement as the digits string through the darkness of his hair, picking up stray carbon particles.

“Shit. There really is charcoal in you hair.” Sherlock raises his eyebrows against soft, half-lidded eyes in an expression of scintillating integrity, _what'd I tell you?_ it deplores, and John grins back at him wickedly with mischievousness more befitting a schoolboy than an adult.

The pair exit the passenger compartment of the cab and step out onto the pavement. Dizzy from sleep deprivation and low blood sugar, Sherlock swaggers over the apartment complex in front of them while John instructs the cabbie to wait. When John comes over, he has to select from a variety of different flats to buzz on the intercom.

“It’s the bottom one.”

“Yes, I _know_ ,” John quips immediately in response, annoyed by the speedy deduction, finger hesitating over the buzzer while he turns to Sherlock, “It’s my _sister,_ ” he exclaims exasperatedly, shaking his head. He pushes the buzzer, now sure of himself. The entrance unlocks.

 _Come on up!_ The intercom chimes.

John clambers up the stairs with Sherlock in tow, until they hit the second floor, which forms an outdoor quadrangle of flats that all look the same.

“Right.”

“I _know_!” John cries, his spacial memory apparently not as immediate as Sherlock's deductions.

When they finally agree on the flat number, John knocks on the door and enters. Sherlock follows, tapping his feet on the doormat to get rid of some gravel residue.

As the two of them dip under the threshold into the homely expanse of the living room, their faces and shoulders are bathed in sepia from the artificial, overhead lighting. The room is carpeted in ivory synthetic and furnished with warm brown tones, leather sofa, sapele coffee table and ochre fireplace mantle. A secondhand, previous generation television sits on a stand, flat against the far wall, tuned to BBC one. Clara stands across from the pair on the far side of the room in the kitchenette alcove, helping a blonde three-year old into her miniature down jacket.

"Oh look the both of you here. Look at that, bug," Clara notes the novelty when she catches a glimpse of the two of men, and turns to inform the toddler with a shoulder pat.

Sherlock saunters off toward the back of the room, and crashes on the couch beneath a window of venetian blinds, leaving the adults to exchange pleasantries while he recovers from his latest excursion. His hair flops listlessly over his nose, and his long limbs extend languidly against the leather.

"Yes sorry about this last minute thing. Sherlock was off on a case and I got called in-" John offers explanatively.

"No don't worry about it, John," Clara scoffs at him like he's being ridiculous.

Harry comes in to retrieve something from the fridge, cracking open the door. “Yeah, John any time you two need a ‘sex holiday’ just ring us up,” she gives him an askance smirk, and John looks momentarily alarmed, then glares back humorlessly, his arms crossed and spine straight with militaristic standoffishness.

Clara isn’t paying attention to the exchange, absorbed with the child tugging at her pantleg. "Go on. Go give Daddy a kiss now," Clara goads the child attached to her leg, who doesn’t seem to want to let go. The child recognizes her father and abides the simple command, plodding off in the John’s direction with the semi-stiff joints characteristic of the toddler age group. But then, to John’s curiosity, she veers off toward Sherlock in the midpoint of the room, who is indeed closer and perhaps a more convenient target.

"No, darling not-" but John reaches a hand out, but is too late. She gets up on the sofa to meet an air-headed Sherlock, who turns to her detachedly. As he attempts to stabilize her from wobbling on the sofa, she gives him a kiss on the cheek. Sherlock stares at the maggot in his hands in shock, the wires of his brain fizzing out and sending damaged sparks into the air that would warrant a “danger” or “hazard” sign in any urban setting. He stares at it intently, eyes boring into its skull, the gears of his mind clunking along in a state of precarious dysfunction, CPU data usage exceeded.

He is distantly aware of John strolling over to them in his one-and-half year old dress shoes and fabric-softened khaki trousers, and turns his startled, cerulean eyes on him. John’s lips are flattened into a wiggly line, resisting the urge to laugh. Sherlock, however, is unable to comprehend what’s so funny.

“John, it..“ Sherlock is speechless.

“Yeah, come on, you’re alright,” he assures him, still repressing laughter as he pulls the sleuth up by the upper arm, “We’re going now.” He retrieves the little monster off the sofa, which kisses him on the nose, “You were good, weren’t you?”

“Yes!” it avows proudly.

“Good job,” he says fondly and gives her a kiss on the forehead, cupping her head with his hand.

“Thank you Clara. And Harry,” he tags on reluctantly. Clara smiles and Harry smirks.

“John, why did it do that?” Sherlock, who seems to have reclaimed his voice, demands as they turn toward the foyer.

As they leave the flat, John holding the door for Sherlock:

“Kids make mistakes, Sherlock. Breathe.”

“That is to imply that I’m not breathing. Which I am, John, I am breathing.”

“Good.”

“I’m am not in anyway _affected_ by your offspring’s behavior, I’m just pointing out a major transgression on its part.”

“It’s harmless, Sherlock,” John tries very hard to keep his voice from cracking, “Really.”

“It wasn’t a mistake. You don’t kiss someone by mistake. That doesn’t happen, John.”

“Anytime you want to calm down…”

“I am calm. I’m always calm. Don't tell me to calm down.”

 

"Bit of an odd couple, your brother's," Clara says, looking after them, "Is he out yet?"

"You tell me," Harry replies with a helpless shrug.


End file.
